The Forest King

CHAPTER 2

It was dusk when Balif reached home. The imposing pile of white marble, alabaster, and crystal had been built for the general at the Speaker’s order as a gift from the grateful nation for the general’s innumerable services. Done in the grand style of the city, the facade was all flutes and flying buttresses designed to make the house look as if it might take wing and fly at any moment. The villa was surrounded by a hedge of glass fronds made to look like the sea grasses of the Silvanesti coast. Forged in tempered glass by the best artisans in the city, the glass fronds bent and fluttered very realistically with every breeze. They were also a first-class defense. Anything trying to run through them would be cut to pieces by the delicate-looking but razor-sharp leaves.

A single torch burned outside the front door. The evening breeze tormented the flame, whipping it from one side to the other but never quite extinguishing it. Balif homed in on the torch like a moth.

The paved area before the ornate door was big enough to parade a company of infantry. A few stone benches dotted the expanse, finely carved out of the hardest purple porphyry, veined with red like blood vessels. The seats were splotched with lichen. Moss welled up between the seams of the pavement.

At the door Balif paused to look back over his shoulder. The plaza appeared empty, but the general surveyed it for a long time.

The great front door opened before Balif could grasp the brass knob. Waiting inside was Balif’s majordomo, Lofotan Brodelamath, impeccably turned out in his servant’s uniform. A soldier who had served more than half his long life with the general, Lofotan had followed Balif home when he retired. Balif did not ask him to come, nor did the old warrior request a position as the general’s servant. He simply came. It was his job, so long as he lived, to serve Balif.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“Hello.”

He stood with his hands over a polished copper bowl while Lofotan poured warm water over his hands. It was the homecoming ritual enacted in every elf home in the city, every day. In that evening’s case Balif called for a second rinse. His hands felt unusually soiled.

Lofotan did not ask about the day’s events. It was not his place. He did say, “My lord, there are two persons waiting to see you.”

Drying his hands on a snowy linen towel, Balif raised an arched brow. “Couriers or courtiers?”

“Neither, I should say. One has the look of a priestess. The other is a scribe.”

“I’ve not summoned either.” Discreetly checking the sash at his waist for the dirk concealed there, Balif crossed the dimly lit hall.

“In the morning hall, my lord.” Balif went to the room indicated.

Within, a single bank of oil lamps burned. While many in Silvanost relied on magical luminars to light their homes, Balif was old-fashioned enough to prefer flame. Seated in the circle of light by the lamp stand were two elves unknown to him. Hearing the general enter, the strangers got to their feet. A stylus and a writing board clattered to the floor.

As Lofotan said, the young female was dressed as a priestess, though without any badges or talismans indicating her temple. Her hair was long, dark and plainly cut. She had slim arms and long fingers but a curiously round face, not at all like the high-cheeked elf women of the city.

The other stranger was middle-aged with the blue-tinged hair of a western woodlander. His clothes were plain homespun with the green stripe of House Servitor worked in with the black cuffs of the scribal guild. Seeing his writing equipment on the floor, the visitor went down on both knees to retrieve it.

Balif approached. He said, “You don’t look like assassins.”

“Sir?” said the clerically dressed female.

He surveyed them with folded arms. “You didn’t come here to slay me, did you?”

The scribe stared blankly. Beside him the apparent priestess replied, “No, my lord! Why in the world would anyone want to harm you, my lord?”

At arm’s length, Balif paused, sizing up the strangers. “No reason. I make a poor jest. What are you called?”

“Mathani Arborelinex, at your service!” She bowed from the waist. The middle-aged scribe stiffly imitated her gesture. His black metal stylus hit the floor again.

“That’s a feast of a name,” Balif observed. “Are you known as Mathi to those with less time for the full treatment?”

“Yes, my lord, or Math, if you prefer.”

“Why are you here, Mathi?”

“The sisters of Quenesti Pah sent me from the Haven of the Lost, my lord.”

Balif understood. He was patron to several worthy causes, one of which was an orphanage run by priestesses of Quenesti Pah in the far west of Silvanesti. The Haven of the Lost was a refuge for victims of the almost constant border warfare between the elves and marauding bands of human nomads on the frontier. Anyone, from infants to adults, could find shelter there. After a certain age, residents of the haven were expected to support themselves.

“You are a ward of the temple?” Mathi bowed her head yes. “You are welcome. We shall discuss your case at dinner tonight.” Balif turned his penetrating eyes to the scribe.

“Who are you?”

“Treskan of Woodbec, my lord.”

“Why are you here?”

The scribe looked crestfallen. “I was told you required a scrivener-”

Balif turned away. “I can’t imagine who told you that. I have less than no need for a scribe. Good evening.”

He walked out, leaving the hall door ajar. Treskan was speechless, but Mathi followed Balif, saying, “My lord! Your servant says there is no one in the house but yourself, him, and a cook. Surely an important elf like yourself has need of a professional scribe?”

Balif laughed shortly. “Don’t confuse being well known with being important.” In the entry hall, Lofotan had been lurking by the door with a stout staff, gripped like a halberd. Seeing there was no trouble, he set it aside.

“My affairs these days are very simple. I do not need a scribe.”

The girl said to the scribe, “I am sorry.”

Treskan replied in a low tone, “Never mind. My hopes were not high. Now I shall have to relinquish my stylus to the guild.” Treskan started for the door.

Balif watched him go, staring at him until he reached the door. “Why will you have to relinquish the tool of your profession?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“I have been without employment too long. With this rejection, I shall lose my membership in the guild.”

“Try elsewhere in the city. Many households in Silvanost employ scribes.”

With a last clumsy bow, Treskan of Woodbec departed. Balif bade Mathi follow. They strolled across the soaring hall, footsteps echoing on the bare, polished walls.

Balif said calmly, “How long were you among humans?”

Mathi halted as if clubbed. “How did you know that, my lord?”

“Where were you captured?”

She looked somber. “In the west. Beyond the forest.”

Trailing behind, Lofotan said, “You were captured by the barbarians?” The girl nodded. “A slave?” She gave another nod.

Balif reached the far side of the monumental hall. “I would know more of this. You shall stay for now, as my guest. Lofotan, have an extra place set for dinner.”

Mathi went down on one knee. “May the goddess bless you, my lord!” She tried to kiss the general’s hand, but Balif was not having it. He ordered the girl to stand.

“Lofotan will find you quarters. Dinner will be at the eighth hour. Lofotan will fetch you then.”

Shadows were building fast. The interior hall had no windows to the outside, and it rapidly darkened as the sun set. The general of the armies of the Speaker of the Stars lit a lamp from a side table and, after a polite farewell, took his leave. Mathi watched the globe of light recede down a long hallway, finally disappearing around a corner.

It was only the seventh hour. She said to Lofotan, “What should I do until dinner?”

“Remain in your room. I will show you there now.”

Without another word, the old soldier lit a lamp of his own and gestured for the girl to follow. Lofotan started up a broad staircase in the center of the hall. When Mathi lagged behind, Lofotan sharply ordered her to keep up.

“This place is a maze, even in daylight. By night it’s a labyrinth not easily navigated.”

Mathi hopped up the steps. “Why is the house so dark and empty?” she said. She was whispering, but she wasn’t sure why.

“My lord is a great elf, but his needs and tastes are simple. This stone pile was urged upon him by the Speaker, but it is not the sort of place Lord Balif would choose to occupy.” At the top of the stairs, a yawning cavern of an upper hall opened before them. Lofotan’s lamp made little impression on the gloom.

“Once, two hundred servants lived and worked here. There were body servants and maids, grooms for the general’s horse and griffon, butlers and cooks and all their assistants. As the years passed, my lord found reasons to dismiss them one by one until only I and the cook remain.”

He led her down the mammoth corridor, flanked on either side by statues of marble and bronze. Some were in the stiff, archaic style of the era before Silvanos. More modern images, with features that changed with the light, unnerved Mathi as she passed by. The robes on the statues seemed to flow and flip in unfelt breezes. One elegant female figure tossed her head, mouth parted in silent mirth.

“How can you stand to walk here?” Mathi said, quavering.

“Ignore them. They’re only stone.”

At what seemed like an arbitrary point, the majordomo stopped. He pointed to a door. “You will sleep here. There’s a filling font in the antechamber. Whatever else you want, you must forgo or see to yourself.”

He turned to leave. “One other thing: don’t roam around-after dark. As I said, this place is a maze, and you may find unpleasant company.” Puzzled, Mathi asked him what he meant. “My lord sleeps in different parts of the house each night. If you disturb him, he may greet you with a blade in the ribs.”

Leaving the astonished girl alone in the dark, Lofotan returned to the stairs. His lamp faded until Mathi was submerged in the enormously dark house. Somewhere out of sight, a door slammed. Mathi darted inside the indicated door and shut it quickly.

Sunset streamed in the high windows. She was in a suite fit for a lord. Furniture stood around the main room in orderly ranks like disciplined soldiers, draped in ghostly white dust cloths. Mathi tugged her belt pouch around and dug out a small luminar. She spoke the illuminating word, simtha, and the crystal glowed to life.

As Lofotan promised, there was a font in the antechamber. A great conch shell had been set up as a basin. Arching over it was a golden tap shaped like a leaping dolphin. When Mathi touched it, water poured forth. She washed her hands, splashed more on her face, and drank a few handfuls before allowing the font to shut off.

She felt lost in such an enormous space. Holding the luminar by its silver handle, she walked through the great suite. Only the main room was furnished. The adjoining salons and bedchambers were empty, just frescoed walls and stone floors. She went back to the main room and pulled the cover off an elegant couch. Sitting in silence for a long time, Mathi nibbled the last of the rations she had brought from the country.

The sleeve rode up on her arm, revealing red scars. She tugged the homespun back over them. It was too soon to look at them. Worse reminders of her time in the forest still stung on her legs, but at least the long hem of her acolyte’s gown always covered them.

She set the luminar on the floor between her feet. It shone brightly, filling the space around her with hard, white light. Everything was going well, she kept reminding herself. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

She dozed while sitting up on the couch. A loud click stirred but did not rouse her. It sounded again, and her sharp senses dragged her awake. She picked up the luminar, which had gone out. A vast tapestry of stars shone in the high windows. For a moment she heard nothing. A silhouette appeared, close to one of the glass panes. Whoever it was rapped gently for attention.

Slowly Mathi approached. At the last instant, she called the luminar to light. It blazed on, dazzling her and the mysterious figure outside. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Treskan the scribe crouched by the window, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Mathi extinguished the light. She tried to open the floor-length window, but the catch refused to turn. Putting all her weight and strength on the handle only bent the brass.

Treskan had dropped his arm when the light went out. He tried to open the window from the outside but could not. By silent gestures he indicated to Mathi she must turn away. She did, afraid he meant to break a pane. There was a quick, small flash of light. The latch squeaked, and the scribe entered.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I had to come back. I will lose my job if I fail to attach myself to Lord Balif.”

Mathi slowly shut the window. Feeling the catch, she found there was no lock on it. So why did it resist opening, and how did Treskan get in?

“Will you speak to Lord Balif for me?” Treskan begged. “You’re having dinner with him, are you not?”

“Yes, and soon.” Mathi looked down at the shabby scribe. They had traveled most of the way from the west country together for mutual company and protection. He was an odd fellow, seemingly useless one moment and amazingly erudite the next. She wondered anew how he got the window open.

Loud footsteps heralded the arrival of Lofotan. Treskan ducked out of sight. Mathi hurried to the couch and sat down demurely. The majordomo came right in without knock or announcement.

“My lord dines. He asks that you attend him,” Lofotan said. Before Mathi could reply, he turned his head from side to side, frowning. “You have had a window open?”

“Why, yes.” How did he know?

“This suite has not been aired in many months. The fresh air is quite distinct.”

Mathi went to the door. Lofotan remained, hands clasped behind his back. “How did you get a window open?”

“Oh, I tried one after another until one opened,” Mathi replied. He demanded to know which one. Outwardly blithe, Mathi took him to the exact door Treskan used. It opened under the majordomo’s hand.

“I see. Can you find your way downstairs by yourself?” He stepped through onto a broad balcony. It followed the bank of windows from one end to the other. When Mathi emerged behind Lofotan, she saw he had a short sword in his hand.

“Go back. Now.”

She did, retrieving her luminar along the way. Downstairs she followed her nose to the dining room. It was not the grand feasting hall she imagined, but a more modest, shelf-lined room she guessed was meant to be a pantry. Balif sat at a round table. A candelabra of sixteen tapers illuminated the scene.

Balif stood. “Come, girl. Sit down.”

There was only one other setting, so she sat there, at the general’s right hand. He poured spring water into an amethyst goblet.

“How came you to the Haven of the Lost?” Balif asked without any opening palaver.

She told him the story she had long rehearsed on the journey to Silvanost. Her family were beekeepers living on the edge of the great western forest. The only settlement near them was Woodbec, a military post three leagues from Mathi’s home. In the early morning hours, a band of humans on horseback raided them, killing her father outright and taking her and her mother prisoner.

Somberly he said, “And when was this?”

“Six summers past, my lord.”

“What happened next?”

Gazing at her empty plate, Mathi described how she and her mother were taken far to the north, on the open plain, and sold as slaves. Her mother could not bear her captive life and took the ultimate escape.

“How?”

“Fly agaric.”

There was no antidote for the poisonous mushroom. It was a slow death but a sure one. In silent kindness, Balif said nothing for a while. When Mathi was ready, she continued her story.

After that, Mathi’s human master, a warrior named Herndan, took her and his whole entourage east, to the Plains River. He got involved in a dispute with another human warrior, fought a duel, and was killed. All that was Herndan’s became the property of the victor, but Mathi used the confusion of her master’s defeat to escape.

“Tell me,” Balif said remorselessly.

“I am a good swimmer,” Mathi said. “I resolved to swim the river or die trying. The human males could not pursue me, weighted as they were with metal armor, so I was able to swim away with arrows flicking past my ears.”

Balif opened a covered silver tray. With tongs, he picked up a delicately poached fish fillet and laid it on her plate. The second, smaller fillet he took himself.

“I regret the arrows,” he said. “They are my fault.”

“How so, my lord? You were not there.”

He replaced the silver dome on the empty tray. “Humans have bows because I gave them to them. My apologies.”

Mathi didn’t understand. She pulled her fish apart with her fingers and ate with them too until she noticed Balif using a tiny two-pronged metal spear to get the food to his mouth. As she was provided with an identical tool, Mathi tried to emulate her host.

“I wandered along the eastern shore of the river, going south. I fell in with a party of woodlanders, who delivered me to the Haven. I lived there a year until the sisters of Quenesti Pah decided I was fit enough to go out on my own. They sent me here to seek your guidance, my lord.”

The general tore a loaf of flat bread in two, placing half on his guest’s plate. For a great lord of Silvanost, he certainly kept an ascetic table.

“The scribe, Treskan; you met him on the journey here?”

“Yes, my lord. He hails from Woodbec, not far from my old home.”

“What do you know about him?”

Mathi poked her cheek with the little spear points. Wincing, she replied, “Only what he told me, my lord. He has had much bad luck in his life. Three of his patrons died, one after the other, and he acquired the reputation in Woodbec of being bad luck. Hence no one would hire him.”

“Hah! Bad luck doesn’t frighten me. I’ll hire him. You may tell him that,” Balif said. Another cover lifted, revealed a bowl of fresh greens. Balif served Mathi. Oil and honey dressing was in the diamond cruet, he said.

Mouth open, Mathi did not know what to say.

“Food to your liking?” asked the general.

“How did you know-?”

“That the scribe is still about? My dear child, this house is protected by powerful conjurations. When someone breaks a door ward, the effect is noted immediately. Is he in the house right now?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Your suite?”

“Yes, my lord. Do forgive me! He’s desperate and I only meant to do him a kindness-”

“I understand. It is because of your kindness, your belief, that I changed my mind.”

Balif refilled her cup and his own. “This city, splendid as it is, is in many ways as cold and hard as the crystal towers soaring over us. Scarcely a week goes by that I’m not accosted by some worthy seeking favors, charity, or largesse. Lofotan has standing orders to throw such beggars out. Being from the Haven, you deserve every kindness, and by showing grace, you earn grace for your friend.”

Mathi wasn’t about to deny being Treskan’s friend. She barely knew him, but she was delighted to have done him a service.

Lofotan appeared as if on signal with a very chastened scribe in tow.

“You know record-hand as well as script?” Balif said, raising his voice to fill the room in commanding fashion. Record-hand was an abbreviated form of writing used to keep records of events. Treskan swore he knew it perfectly.

“You are retained. Lofotan will find you quarters. You may eat in the kitchen.”

The old soldier clapped a heavy hand on Treskan’s shoulder to pull him away. The scribe said, “Thank you, my lord! May Astarin and Matheri bless you-but wait! What will my duties be?”

“You will handle all the writing that needs to be done in the household, of course. Good night!”

Lofotan steered Treskan away. Balif parted his last bit of fish with his fork and said loudly, “If you ever enter my house illicitly again, it will cost you your head. Understood?”

Treskan stammered, “Ah, perfectly, my lord. Thank you for this chance!”

“You will surrender the ward-breaker you used to Lofotan too.”

“Already done, my lord,” said the majordomo, holding up a small metal and crystal talisman.

Dinner ended with Mathi hardly less hungry than when she started. Balif did not escort her to her room. He merely asked her to return there if she was finished.

Mathi got up and bowed to her host. “Thank you, my lord. May I ask one question?” Sipping spring water, Balif nodded. “What shall become of me?”

“That is for the gods to decide, is it not?” He smiled not unkindly. “I shall inquire around the city for you. What skills do you have?”

“My best talent is beekeeping,” she said.

The general asked if she had any special deficiencies.

Mathi lowered her head. “I do not get along well with domestic animals,” she said. That was a problem she never realized in her sylvan home, but while a slave of the nomads, Mathi discovered that their domestic animals could not abide her. Cows, goats, sheep, even dogs were restless around her. Birds took wing, and cats fled in terror.

“To what do you attribute such a reaction?”

“I do not know, my lord. Perhaps my scent disturbed them. I cannot say.”

“Very well, your warning is duly noted. Good night, Mathani. Remember to stay in your room tonight unless summoned by me or Lofotan.”

She bowed and departed. Mathi’s head was reeling with many conflicting thoughts. The mighty general was nothing like she expected. Kind but aloof, humble yet commanding, he seemed like an elf at war with himself. All his precautions-all his defenses-had to be in place to ward off a real threat. But from whom … or what?

Far off in the silent, empty house, she heard a sudden loud clang. Mathi was awake at once. Rapid footfalls echoed in the long hall outside her door. She picked up her luminar but left it unlit. Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open a finger’s width.

Something flashed by. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Mathi was sure what ran past was on all fours, such as a dog. There was a shout from the top of the stairs, a wordless cry of alarm. Mathi pushed the door shut, held her luminar up and spoke the word to make it shine. Then she flung the door wide and ran out.

Where the broad steps met the wide hall, two figures struggled in a deadly embrace. Both stood upright. Light glinted on a red metal blade. The taller one was Lofotan. He had a short sword in one hand as he grappled with a darkly clad opponent who seemed to be wearing fur robes. The old soldier’s eyes caught the glare of the luminar.

“Put out that light!” he cried.

His enemy turned to see who Lofotan was shouting at. In that instant Mathi saw his face. It was elf-shaped but covered with brown fur. Enormous dark eyes, all pupils and no white, reflected the light, glowing red as hot coals.

Mathi stumbled back, dropping the light. The luminar hit the floor and went out.

She heard rather than saw what happened next. Someone landed several hard blows, each one followed by grunts of pain. There followed the unmistakable sound of flesh being cleaved. A sharp howl filled the hall. Lofotan uttered a soldier’s oath. Then all was quiet, save for the elf’s labored breathing.

“Come here, girl.”

He had to call twice before Mathi gathered enough presence of mind to comply. “Bring your light,” Lofotan added. He coughed dryly. Mathi brought the luminar but did not activate it.

“Shine it there.”

The cone of light revealed the intruder dead at his feet, lying in a spreading pool of blood. He resembled an adult male elf except for the startling fur. Elves were not hirsute. They regarded humans and dwarves as beastly simply because they had body hair and beards.

Lofotan cursed again and stepped back out of the gore. Remembering that he was in the presence of a Haven girl, he apologized, saying, “Forgive me. It was stronger than I expected.”

The old soldier edged into the light. He was wounded. A long, bleeding gash ran from his left ear down across his throat. The front of his white tunic was soaked with blood. A patchwork of scratches covered his face.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

“It’s nothing.” He prodded the corpse with the point of his sword.

“What happened here?”

A new voice said, “It came to kill me.”

The servant and the girl looked down the stairs and saw Balif, bearing an oil lamp in one hand and a naked sword in the other. Lofotan instinctively straightened. Ignoring his hurts, he raised his bloody blade in salute.

“The other one got away,” Balif said, approaching. Mathi stared at the pair of unsheathed blades handled with such casual skill.

“Can this one talk?”

It was beyond speech. After a hard cut to the shoulder, Lofotan had run the beast through. It could answer only the gods.

Padding down the hall came more footsteps. Balif and Lofotan squared off, swords ready, until they recognized the scribe, Treskan. Judging by his appearance, he had been sleeping in his clothes. He took in the scene with wide eyes.

“My lord, shall I fetch the city guard?” Treskan asked. Death by sword was uncommon in Silvanost.

“This is no one’s affair but my own. Remember that. Whatever happens in this house is my affair and mine alone.” He sighed deeply. By the ruddy oil light, Balif looked aged and tired. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Lofotan held out an arm, blocking his general. “Don’t dirty your hands, my lord. Let us take care of it.”

“You’re wounded, my friend. The scribe is in shock, and this girl is too tender in years for such a task.”

Mathi held up her chin. “My lord, I was raised on a farm and lived many days as a captive. Blood is no stranger to me.”

Lofotan also dismissed his lord’s concern. “My wounds are nothing. Not like the Battle of the Burning Tree, eh, my lord? Come, scribbler. Lend a hand.”

Grimacing, Treskan took hold of one pair of the dead creature’s hands and feet. Lofotan took the other. Mathi went ahead with her luminar to light the way. They dragged the body to the top of the steps. Treskan suggested they roll it down the stairs, but Lofotan sharply squelched that idea.

“Do you want to mop every stone between here and the cellar? I don’t. Pick him up. Your clothes will wash more easily than a mile of white marble!”

They hoisted the dead creature to their shoulders and followed Mathi down. Balif trailed, carrying his lamp. In the entry hall, Lofotan directed Mathi down a side passage to another, narrower set of steps. Down the inky steps they went. Mathi could see nothing but winding stone stairs. She kept her shoulder tight against the cold stone wall and uttered a prayer as they descended.

“What is that you’re saying?” asked Lofotan.

“A prayer.”

“For this unnatural creature?”

“No,” said Mathi, struggling under the weight of the corpse. “I asked Quenesti Pah to guide my steps, so I don’t fall!”

The air grew cooler and damper. Far below ground level, the steps ended in a vaulted room crowded with barrels and draped shapes of uncertain purpose. They put the body down. Lofotan went alone to root around in the shadowed recesses of the cellar. Balif, standing on the last step, noticed the girl was trembling. Treskan the scribe scrubbed absently at the stain on his shoulder.

“Have you not seen death before?”

“Yes, my lord.” In her life Mathi had witnessed battles, murders, and all kinds of mayhem. “But I still shake at the sight of blood.”

Treskan remarked, “It was a heavy burden!”

“Burden.” Balif pursed his thin lips. “Try bearing the weight of a hundred such creatures.”

Mathi studied him. Was Balif boasting he had killed a hundred intruders like the one before them?

Lofotan returned, dragging an empty crate. They wrapped the body in a makeshift canvas shroud, put it in the crate, and nailed the lid on. Lofotan promised to have the crate removed later. The body would be taken out of the city unseen and buried secretly. Not even Balif or his majordomo would know where it would ultimately lie.

Mathi didn’t understand why they were acting like accomplices to a crime. Surely Lofotan acted in self-defense against an attacker of plainly unnatural origin. Why hide the incident?

“Too many questions will be asked,” Balif said calmly. “Guilt will be applied where none is needed.”

The four of them climbed the stairs to the entry hall in silence. Mathi’s mind was racing. If forces were arrayed to kill Balif, why didn’t the Speaker of the Stars send troops and magicians to protect him?

“Your head is full of questions,” Balif said sagely. “I understand. Some things cannot be explained in ordinary conversation. If you prove yourself worthy, the answers shall come.”

Balif made a graceful if weary exit. He did not go back down the corridor where he had previously gone. Having been disturbed once, he was off to find a different location to sleep.

“What if I don’t prove worthy?” Treskan asked.

“Then I shall personally cut your throat.” There was no animosity in Lofotan’s promise, just blunt honesty. Mathi believed him completely.

Wrung out, she returned to the couch in her vacant suite. Mathi was about to extinguish her luminar for the night when she spotted writing on the distant marble wall. It had not been there when she first came to the room. Someone had written it since-

The intruder. The intruder had been in the suite while she slept. Mathi walked slowly to the graffito. The runny red letters were not written with paint.

Honor demands honesty, it read. Survival needs secrecy.